


Like the birds and the bees

by Lestradesexwife



Series: Prompt fills and Random Plot Bunnies. [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Bondage, Established Relationship, Gunplay, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Polyamory, Public Display of Affection, Public Sex, Roleplay, Voice Kink, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-27 11:59:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lestradesexwife/pseuds/Lestradesexwife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is established relationship PWP. Which started as a one shot and morphed into what it currently is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Last Rat standing

**Author's Note:**

> Blond!batch for Assange gave me a brainwyrm. And because I do have a weakness for Bondlock, also because Bond and Watson have the same shoulder scar. This is not typical bondlock, in that it doesn't contain any actual bond characters. And the Q/Sherlock thing is not present at all.  
> I should also say that the gun play is totally safe and sane, and is really only used for the set up. but if guns aren't your thing (they aren't mine but the plot bunny made me do it) you should skip this chapter.
> 
> This will probably be inserted into my John/Sherlock/Greg fic, but it takes place well into their relationship, so I am posting it separately because I can't not.  
> I don't own anything. Bond or Sherlock. Just a bit of good old fashioned fun.

In retrospect John should have expected something like this would happen. It was like crap telly, once Sherlock started doing it there was no stopping him. And life had never been peaceful in 221B.

_**“John.”**_ Sherlock growled in John’s ear, appearing without warning over the back of John’s chair while John was reading. One day Sherlock was actually going to startle the former army doctor and end up sprawled on the floor in a headlock. But apparently today was not that day, as John simply lowered his book to his lap with a sigh.

“Sherlock.” John tried, he really did, to restrain his tells, it would not do for the world’s only consulting detective to know exactly what that tone and annunciation of his name did to John.

John could feel Sherlock’s smile against the shell of his ear. _“John, what is your safe word?”_

“Toothpaste.” He replied immediately. A shiver running through him, oh god, apparently his tells were irrelevant today. Sherlock had said a lot of indecent things in the years that John had known him, but that was far and away the most arousing thing John had ever heard.

He was rewarded by a soft warm breath against his ear. _“Very good.”_ He just wanted to melt into his chair, and he let his eyes drift close. “John, make it safe.” A command this time, a harsher edge on his name.

John opened his eyes and turned his head slightly to the left, his Browning was dangling from Sherlock’s fingers, just at the edge of his vision. “Sherlock, we talked about this, you said you would stop cracking my gun safe.”

_**“John, make it safe.”** _

John waited, he held his breath and counted out thirty seconds in his head one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand... But the gun still dangled from Sherlock’s fingers, he held it like someone else would hold something unpleasant. But John had seen the way Sherlock held unpleasant things, and it was not in anyway like someone else. “You know how Greg feels about that.” He tried again.

“I will be finished with it before Greg gets home. I shall even put it away when I am done. _**Now, make it safe.**_ ”

John took the gun from Sherlock, shifting sideways slightly in his chair to reach back and grasp the gun by the handle. He let his hand partially cover Sherlock’s as he did, but as soon as John had control of the gun Sherlock’s fingers vanished. John checked the safety and then ejected the clip. The clip was full, but he still checked the chamber twice. He put the clip down on the little table next to his chair and held the empty gun in his right hand, flat on his palm.

_“Thank you, John.”_ Sherlock’s right hand appeared over the back of the chair and retrieved the gun from John, holding it properly this time. The gun disappeared behind the chair and John tried to decide if he wanted to ask what was happening next. There was a rustle of fabric and Sherlock’s hands appeared over John’s head, a thick black blindfold stretched between them.

There was a brief pause before the blindfold touched John’s face. A moment that asked for permission. Sherlock had learned, and quickly, that it was better to ask for permission; this wasn’t a game of let me push John as hard as I can until he does use his safeword.

John swallowed and settled back in his chair, putting his book down on top of the clip on the side table. He let the possibility of saying no form in his mind. Glad that Sherlock had made sure John knew the gun was safe before the blindfold. “Yes. Alright.” He closed his eyes before the blindfold covered them.

He is given another moment. Peaceful and quiet in the chair. Because Sherlock knows, he does know, even if John never told him. This should be the worst possible thing that anyone could do to John. This should leave him a quivering mass of PTSD, but it won’t. Even when Sherlock presses the tip of the gun against his temple, just so, just above the edge of the blindfold, just barely a touch. Just enough to feel the metal against his skin. This would send anyone not John round the bend, and it does make John’s heart hammer in his chest. But he isn’t afraid, he’s calm. Because he is John Watson, and maybe just a bit barking mad.

He understands the command for “up” even if it is just the tiniest motion of the gun barrel. And he knows that he can’t actually feel the gun pointed at him once he stands, the barrel having dragged slightly along his skull as he moved.

Once he is on his feet Sherlock grabs his wrist and pulls him to the right, turning him back towards the kitchen. Sherlock uses his right arm, torqued around behind his back, to steer John through the kitchen. The barrel of the gun pressed just above John’s left kidney. John walks, cataloguing ways to escape, making lesson plans in his mind “Breaking holds and disarming your opponent, advanced training.” He was an army doctor, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know a thing or two about close quarter combat. He tries to remember if there is anything hazardous between his chair and their bedroom, but either there is nothing or Sherlock has cleared a path because he encounters nothing he could use to resist.

The door to their room is open. Which is likely Sherlock being clever, stopping to open a door for a hostage (especially one who knows a thing or two) is one of the best ways to have your hold broken and become disarmed. The corners of John’s mouth twist up ever so slightly, not sure that he should be happy that Sherlock is no longer making rookie mistakes. He is pushed through the doorway into the room and he staggers two steps before turning back to face Sherlock.

“Remove your trousers and shirt.” John struggled to place the accent that Sherlock was speaking in, maybe Spanish, his R’s were thick and rolling. His voice had no right to sound as good as it did.

John kicked off his shoes and opened the clasp of his belt, leaving it through the loops of his trousers. He allowed Sherlock to see the lesson, this could be a weapon, before opening the flys of his trousers. He let them fall and pool around his ankles, waiting to be told whether or not to kick them away from his feet. When Sherlock didn’t say anything he pulled his jumper up over his head, considering pulling the blindfold off along with it. The barrel of the gun pressed against his stomach, with his arms tangled in his jumper his options were limited so he froze.

“Leave the blindfold.” Sherlock growled. Pushing the muzzle into John’s stomach muscle hard enough to leave a mark.

Definitely Spanish, John decided as the gun pulled back and he resumed removing his jumper. He paused, with his fingers on the buttons of his collared shirt. He liked this shirt, and he didn’t want it ruined, but it might be more fun to have Sherlock take it off for him.

“Hurry up Watson.”

John made quick and efficient work of his buttons, shrugging out of the shirt and letting it fall into the pool of clothing at his feet.

He could hear Sherlock moving and tracked him with his head. He wasn’t surprised when Sherlock grabbed his right wrist again, wrenching his arm back and pulling him away from his clothes. The edge of his chair pressed against the back of his knees and he sat down hard.

“Ankle restraints, do them up.”

John ran his hands down the front legs of the chair. He found the bit of chain attached to the chair above the cross piece. Sherlock had been tied to a chair often enough to know how to properly attach the restraints. The chain was long enough that it would reach his ankles while his feet were on the floor, but not long enough to give him any useful range of motion to escape. John attached the ankle cuff, removing his sock as he did so, he palmed the handcuff key he kept in his sock as he flipped the sock away. Then he did the same again on his other side. Sherlock didn’t immediately comment on the key, so either he hadn’t seen or he was playing along for now. Letting John think that he had an advantage.

“Hands behind your back.” Sherlock barking order in a Spanish accent had no right at all to sound so good, John considered resisting just to get more of Sherlock’s voice. John’s fists clenched as Sherlock pressed the gun into his temple again. “Then again,” he purred. “show me your left hand.”

John sighed to cover the shift of the key between his fingers and held his hand out, palm down.  
Sherlock clicked his tongue against his teeth. Then sighed sharply. The sharp metallic click of the handcuff around his wrist was not a surprise, the feeling of nostalgia that came with Sherlock dragging his arm around by the cuff did. John dropped his head and inhaled sharply, his heart pounding again in his chest, feeling as though he was running again. Sherlock paused, dropping the handcuff and taking John’s hand in his own. Sherlock turned John’s hand in his own and kissed his palm. John held his breath, hoping that was the end of it, hoping that he had been able to correctly palm the key so that it wasn’t visible between his fingers. He sighed as Sherlock turned his elbow and shoulder, pulling his arm behind him. He felt the short chain of the cuff wrap around the crosspiece of the chair and then the barrel of the gun was trailing along his right shoulder. He resisted the urge to chuckle, at least Sherlock wasn’t trying to control both of his wrists and the gun at the same time. John proffered his right wrist and was almost relieved when the cuff clicked home. He curled his fingers into fists, the better to hide the key, but also to test the snugness of the cuffs.

The gun was removed and Sherlock stepped away, John followed his progress across the room. The familiar sound of his footsteps on the floor marking his progress towards the chest of drawers. There was a muffled dull thud, then the sharper snick and click of the gun safe closing. _Well that’s the end of part one I see._ John made a mental note to reward Sherlock for putting away the gun. Greg knew about it, but the less he saw of it the better. John shifted against the restraints, checking their give while he was fairly certain Sherlock was still facing the other way.  
There was a scrape and dragging sound of a chair across the floor. Sherlock must have brought in one of the kitchen chairs. John felt the warmth of the other man invading his space as Sherlock sat down in front of him.

Sherlock adjusted the chair, pulling in close to John, pressing one of his knees between John’s thighs. “I’m going to remove the blindfold now, Watson.” John felt hands on either side of his head, pulling out the knot in the cloth, John kept his eyes closed until he felt Sherlock sit back in the chair across from him.

“You can open your eyes now, I’m not going to hurt you, it won’t make a difference.” Sherlock’s voice had gone quiet, lost all trace of command.

John opened his eyes slowly, directing his gaze defiantly at Sherlock. For the briefest of moments John’s brain skittered, wondering if Sherlock had indeed been replaced by a Spanish doppelganger. If John had seen the man across from him in the street he would have passed him by, he was beautiful, true but so wholly different as to be unrecognizable. John furrowed his brow and squinted at Sherlock, had he actually dyed his hair, or was he wearing a blond wig. John could not tell, and he was concerned that the change was permanent. Sherlock must have also been wearing makeup, because the blond hair should have washed him out, instead he appeared to be olive skinned and tan. He was wearing, John wasn’t sure what he was wearing, but it was definitely non-standard Sherlock attire. A cream suit jacket with rust pants, some sort of grey vest and the oddest patterned shirt John had ever seen.

“Who are you meant to be then?” John refused to laugh, the disguise was quite good after all, but he let a trace of humour poke through his tone.

Sherlock sighed and leaned away from John. Stretching his legs forward, closing in on John’s legs. He sighed out a breath, clearly disappointed though it was unclear whether it was in John or in himself. “I’m the last of the rats.” he said, tapping his fingers along his bottom lip. His eyes tracked over John slowly, catching on the scar on his left shoulder. “Oh, look at what they’ve done to you.” Sherlock snapped forward suddenly, closing the distance between them again. But his touch was gentle, just skimming the tips of his fingers over the scar.

John smirked, catching the reference, and more than a bit flattered. Both that Sherlock apparently hadn’t deleted their movie nights and to be compared to Craig’s Bond, even if it was just for the scar. He turned his head down and away from Sherlock’s hand, swallowing down his growing smile. Wracking his brain for the next line of dialogue from the movie. Obviously Craig hadn’t been nearly naked, more’s the pity, in that scene so some improvisation was to be expected but it was suddenly important that he get it right. He waited until he had control over his face, pulling down a mask of impassiveness over his features. “They never tied me to a chair.”

Sherlock smiled as John met his eyes. “Their loss.” His fingers trailed back over John’s shoulder, up his neck and across his jaw. He presses his fingers under John’s chin, pushing his head up a little more. “Happily enough for me.” He dropped his hands down to John’s thighs, running his fingers up John’s inner thighs, stopping just at the edge of his groin. “How you’re trying to remember your training now, is there a regulation for this?” Sherlock applied some pressure to John’s thighs, forcing his legs apart slightly. “I suppose there is a first time for everything.”

Sherlock was practically on top of John now, barely seated on the edge of his chair so that John had to turn his head to look at him. “Who says this is my first time?” John pushed forward as far as he could, catching Sherlock’s lips with his own.

Sherlock abandoned his own chair completely, shifting forward into the kiss and pressing John back.  
 _“Oh. Doctor Watson_."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written at the prompting of many of you, a_xmasmurder chiefly. But you know who you are, and that I love you.
> 
> Herein lies the tale of Greg Lestrade, listening in on John and Sherlock...
> 
> And a bit of bribery.

In the end it was probably a good thing that the last person John had spoken to was Greg. It meant that when he pocket dialled his last contact he didn’t call Harry, or his mum.

********  


When Greg got the call, it had only been hours since he last spoke to John, he thought John wanted him to pick up some takeaway on the way home from the Yard. The muffled, distant tones of an obvious pocket dial almost made him hang up, until the clear even and vaguely familiar voice said “Leave the blindfold.” He hears the shuffle of fabric as John moves, and the prickle of fear that runs up his spine is familiar too. He’s frozen, trying hard not to breathe into the phone, praying that his greeting didn’t register where ever John is.

********  


He drops his head between his knees, trying to close out the noise from the office outside his door, trying to hear anything that will help him find John. He should be starting a trace on his mobile, but John’s mobile has one of those fancy “find my phone” things so there is no hurry, Greg pulls the phone away from his ear to open the recording program, his hands shaking slightly as he concentrates on not disconnecting the call. He listens to hear John’s panic word, if John had dialed him on purpose and he can talk he would say something about the weather, if not he would tap out s.o.s. That was assuming of course that John knew that the call had actually connected.

********  


Greg squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to breathe through his mouth, muffled under his hand, as the not-quite-familiar voice speaks of restraints. The clicks of the handcuffs are sharp in his ears, there are some indistinct background noises and another click. His eyebrows knit together, trying to place the sounds. If Sherlock was here he could probably tell the size of the room and the position of all the furniture, how many people were involved and whether or not they were armed.

********  


Greg’s pulse increased again, “I’m going to remove the blindfold now, Watson.” This could be bad, if they didn’t intend to let John go, if Greg couldn’t find him in time. Greg wondered if they had taken Sherlock as well, if they hadn’t they had made a grave mistake. Although the two of them together could get out of most of the trouble they got into. He tried to focus, he needed to concentrate.

********  


John was speaking, and he sounded good, amused even. None of his panic words being worked into his conversation. So maybe he knows he can get himself out of this... maybe Sherlock was lurking somewhere waiting for a dramatic entrance and knocking some heads together. Greg’s brow furrows, what the hell is going on? Regulations, training... who the hell kidnaps John Watson anyway? Sure in the early days John was getting knocked over the head with disturbing regularity, but since his return Sherlock has shown the criminal classes the error of their ways. Any attempt to come at Sherlock, or Greg, through John has ended very badly indeed for the kidnappers, or potential assassins.

********  


The growl, was what finally gave Sherlock away. Over the phone, and apparently with a bad Spanish accent Greg hadn’t been able to tell. But he has heard every variation of John’s name in Sherlock’s voice, and it makes his pulse quicken for an entirely different reason when he hears it this time. It is obvious that John did not intend to call Greg, there isn’t enough directed at the phone for them to be aware that he is listening. He inhales sharply and locks the screen of his phone so that he can’t disconnect the call, slides the phone into his pocket and grabs his jacket from the back of his chair. It is the middle of his workday, and there aren’t any active crime scenes, but he can’t just pop home.

********  


He closes the door of his office behind him, making his way across the bullpen without catching anyone’s attention. He heads for the little first aid room at the end of the hall, it has a kit and some manuals on how to put people back together after office supply mishaps. More importantly it has a little camp bed-like couch for catching some shut-eye if the computers and overhead lights give you a migraine during a long case and a door that locks. He’s terrified he is missing something, and praying to whatever minor deities are responsible that the room is empty.

********  


The room is dark and quiet, the door thick and reassuringly heavy. Greg locks it and then pulls his phone out of his pocket, pushing the headphone jack in and shoving the earbuds into his ears. His cock twitches, coming fully hard at the sounds that filled his ears. He tucks the desk chair under the handle of the door, it wouldn’t stop anyone from coming in, but hopefully it would give him an extra moment to compose himself if anyone with an actual migraine should happen by.

********  


Once he was sure that he was as safe as he could be, having a wank in the first aid room, he allowed himself to really listen to what was happening at Baker street. He palmed himself through his trousers and settled down on the camp bed, his ankles hung over the edge and he sighed as he toed off his shoes. Greg let his hand trail over the shape of his cock through his trousers, taking his time, because this was the point of no return. There was a line between being turned on by the sounds of his lovers doing whatever they were doing, and having a wank at work while listening to his lovers do _that_.

********  


And whatever that was had just made John groan in a way that Greg could not ignore. He balanced the mobile on his chest and opened his fly. Cataloguing the various methods he knew to create that sound on John’s lips. The sound from the mobile was frustratingly muffled, which meant that it was actually in John’s pocket. But that John’s trousers couldn’t be that far away. Where were they? Surely at home in Baker Street, Sherlock wasn’t above a bit of adventure, but John tended to be quieter if they were somewhere they might be interrupted or discovered.

********  


So home, and Sherlock had mentioned restraints, so tied to his chair. No not tied, cuffed, Greg had heard the distinct clicking of handcuffs. Greg sighed, resisting the urge to shove his hand into his pants and jerk himself off roughly. He preferred the sight of John Watson wrapped in red ropes, the handcuffs were too easy for John to get out of. Greg smirked and wondered idly if John had his cuff key, if he would try to escape, or just let Sherlock’s game play out.

********  


If Sherlock was behaving, cuffed to his chair meant cuffed to John’s low backed desk chair (so as to not strain John’s shoulder) which most likely meant the main floor bedroom. Sherlock had tried to experiment in the sitting room. Moving John’s chair out of the bedroom had made John, not uncomfortable exactly, and it had certainly been enjoyable for all three of them. But Sherlock hadn’t tried again to move the chair, always bringing John into the bedroom instead.

********  


So no trousers, probably naked and cuffed to his chair, in the bedroom. Sherlock was harder to pin down. Probably a costume, judging by John questioning his identity. Greg had seen Sherlock in quite a few get-ups over the year they had been together, that wasn’t really relevant to the proceedings.

********  


Greg decides that the sounds he is hearing are being generated by the two men kissing, there isn’t that much to hear apart from the occasional sharp intake of breath and the almost purr that Sherlock makes when he really loses himself. Greg has seen variations on this theme often enough to weave an image in his mind as he slides his fingers under the elastic of his pants. Sherlock straddling John in the chair, and it might actually be important if Sherlock is still dressed or not. Greg tries not to dwell too long on his image of Sherlock as evil genius, because it really isn’t that far off from everyday Sherlock. But with Jim Moriarty behind his eyes instead of the man Greg loves.

********  


Greg concentrates on the sounds on the phone, John doesn’t whimper, the frustrated growl, muted crash of the cuffs and thunk of the chair legs against the floor indicate that Sherlock has pulled away rapidly, abandoning John’s lap. Greg’s cock twitches against his fingers at the image of John unable to follow after the contact. Hands fisted, if he still has his cuff key he is thinking about using it, freeing himself and taking Sherlock down. He’d still have the ankle cuffs, but if Sherlock’s back is turned John has a chance to tackle Sherlock before he can respond. John doesn’t need full motion in his legs to shift the balance of power.

********  


There is another rattle of the short chains that tells Greg John has stopped straining against the restraints. Greg sighs and runs the pads of his fingers over the underside of his cock, imagining the strain leaving the muscles of John’s shoulders.

********  


“Tsk, Tsk Watson, no need to be impatient.” Sherlock’s Spanish accent is back, but it is still utterly bizarre to hear Sherlock use Watson to address John. Greg is used to being called Lestrade, even after everything they have done together. It makes drawing his name in a low growl or a shouted orgasm from Sherlock all the more sweet, a challenge for both of them. Greg wraps his fingers around his cock and strokes, long and slow and tight inside his pants. His breath hitching at the image of Sherlock spread out beneath him, his cock deep in Sherlock’s arse, thrusting hard and quick and watching the shape of his name form on Sherlock’s lips.

********  


“You are going to tell me what I want to know. There is no need to rush, will they even look for you, or will they just think that you have failed again?”

Greg holds his breath, wanting to defend John from whatever wicked game Sherlock is playing but knowing that he will not be heard even if he speaks up now.

********  


“Oh is this about information then, have you lost something... your nerve perhaps. Did you expect me to cringe and beg?”

********  


Greg heard Sherlock growl, deep and edging towards furious. “Very well, we can do this the hard way. Choose.”

********  


The line was silent for a moment as John considered options Greg could not see. Greg’s hand was still on his cock, and this was dangerous. Finally John answered,  “The crop.”

********  


“As you wish, you can use the key in your left hand to unlock the cuffs now, if you like. I’ll have the key when you are done. And hands together in front if you please.”

********  


John and Greg exhaled sharply at the same time, Greg listened closely to the sound of the chains sliding over the rails of the chair, imagined John rolling his shoulders. Standing and clipping his wrists back together again, giving Sherlock his most fearsome glare, but doing as he was bid. And Sherlock standing there, riding crop in one hand, the other outstretched for the handcuff key. Greg bit his lip to stifle the sound that rose in his throat, his hand tightening on his cock and his hips twitching up into his fist.

********  


There was the sound of movement and then the sound of a long bit of chain uncoiling. Greg knew exactly where they had to be now. Their bedroom had a discrete but sturdy hook in the ceiling, and a box with three lengths of chain. Sherlock had conducted extensive tests to determine the exact length of chain that would hold each of them precisely, arms over head, slightly off balance, enough slack to be comfortably uncomfortable. Each chain was different, John’s was the heaviest and Greg could not stop the groan that escaped his lips as it was attached to the ceiling and locked over the short chain between John’s wrists.

********

There was a quiet moment, in which Greg could not hear the slide of Sherlock’s hands over John’s body. Could not hear the sway of the chain as John rolled his shoulders against the pull and planted his feet, adjusting his stance and dropping his head down between his shoulders. Greg can’t help the thrusts of his hips into the tight grip of his hand. The constriction of his pants makes every motion of his hand and hips feel tighter than it is, angles are all wrong and part of his brain is screaming at the men on the other end of the phone line for teasing him. He wants to shout at them to do something that he can hear, which isn’t fair because they don’t know he is listening. His hips buck as _wrong wrong wrong bad bad_  rolls through his mind.

********  


He is concentrating so hard on the lack of sound that Sherlock’s voice makes him jump, guilty and throwing a glance towards the door to the first aid room. “Tell me where they are.”

********  


“I have no,” John’s breath hitches and Greg can see the tip of the riding crop ghosting over his nipples, his cock, trailing down between his arse cheeks, “idea what you are talking about, where are whom?”  

********  


Greg laughs, barely under his breath, at John’s obvious dig at Sherlock’s grammar nazi upbringing. John’s submissive side was anything but passive, he made you work for your control and he was as tough as a samurai blade. Greg felt a rush of surprise and warmth as no blow landed immediately, Sherlock was learning to control his temper. “Tsk, Tsk, Watson. I’m beginning to think that you enjoy this. Do you want me to hurt you? To give you a reason to give in to my wishes? Tell me where they are now, and I promise to keep you here for days, just on the edge of too much. Would you like that?”

********  


Greg can hear the crop as it cuts through the air, not striking John, Sherlock’s arm cutting paths through the air, aimed at nothing. Greg’s breath is short and harsh in his ears, the ear buds increasing his awareness of the pounding of his heart. His hips are twitching helplessly against his hand, he wants, god he needs to get off. He can’t spend the rest of the day in hiding. He hears the floorboards creaking and knows that Sherlock is pacing around John now, and it is a relief to Greg that he is preparing to strike. He gives in and strokes himself, his mind substituting himself for John, then for Sherlock, flickering images, John with a paddle behind Sherlock, Greg tracing the lines of Sherlock’s arms with the riding crop. And just once, Greg and John taking turns paddling Sherlock, a true punishment.

********  


Greg comes back to himself and stills his hand on his cock, biting into the pad of his free hand to stop himself from crying out, as John speaks again. “Still don’t know what you want from me.”

********  


“Tell me what you have done with them.” Greg knows suddenly, and Jesus, it is his fault. Even though really, properly it would be more John’s style. And it certainly isn’t just about the cigarettes, Sherlock would not have done any of this just because John had binned his emergency fags. It had only been one anyway, Greg had found it stashed in the back of the dry goods cupboard, a package inside a package on a shelf that was too high for John to use regularly. It was only one and it had been so very very long since he had even felt a twinge, surely he would be safe. He’d taken a walk around the park, and it had been stale and terrible. He came home and showered and brushed his teeth and washed all the clothes he had been wearing. John hadn’t noticed, and it had been weeks ago and Greg’d been clean ever since. And now this.

********  


“With **what**?” There was silence in the room, and Greg knew that Sherlock was evaluating. Examining John, finding a lack of deception, but not being able to trust it. Everyone thought John was a terrible liar, until they played their first game of poker against him. John could be withholding something, or merely staying in character.

********  


Sherlock sighed, “I want to believe you, Watson, I really do.”  There was a swish and a crack that makes Greg flinch in the dark room. John doesn’t cry out, doesn’t hiss or ask why and Greg can see him set his teeth. There is a clink as John settles his arms, shifting against the chain.

********  


“Of course, now anything you say will be suspect. I can’t believe you, you might just tell me what you think I want to hear to make me stop.” There are three more quick snaps of the crop, and the moan that rises from John’s throat has Greg moving his hand again on his cock, short sharp jerks that do nothing to satisfy him.

********  


“Would you like me to stop? Will you tell me that you don’t know. I’m sure now that they sent you to me unprepared. They didn’t even tell you who I am. They expected you to die, didn’t they. To save them the trouble. If you can’t give me what I need, you may as well give me what I want. It is needless for you to suffer.”

********  


John doesn’t answer, and the silence stretches out until Greg checks the mobile on his chest to make sure the call hasn’t been dropped. John’s smiling face looks up at him from the caller id and the timer keeps counting forward, and that is when Greg hears it, faint and distant. A collection of small noises that paint a vivid picture in his mind: Sherlock standing in front of John, the crop tucked up under his arm, left hand cupped under John’s chin. John’s cheeks hollowed around two of Sherlock’s fingers. Sherlock won’t even thrust them, he holds John steady and lets him roll his tongue over them. The noise comes from the back of John’s throat, the change in suction as he swallows, and Sherlock’s sharp breathing.

********  


Greg might actually have to shut off the phone, have his wank in peace and go back to work. This is torture, he doesn’t know what he wants but he needs more. He wants Sherlock to hear him moan over the phone, pick it up and let Greg tell him what to do next. Or hear him desperate and needy and talk him through the rest of his wank. Neither of those options are likely, but he can’t shut off the phone now and risk missing something.

********  


“ _Watson_.” It still sounds foreign on Sherlock’s lips, even without the Spanish accent. John groans around Sherlock’s fingers and the chain rattles as he shakes, pulls away.

********  


“Sherlock, please...”

********  


“John,” The sound of the clasp at the end of the chain releasing John was a relief for Greg, the tension in his shoulders melts away and his grip loosens, pulling his hand off his cock. Are they finished, is John hurt? Greg can’t see and they aren’t making enough noise for Greg to guess what is happening.

********  


“No, leave them... just let me.”

There is not enough sound in kissing, at least not for Greg at the other end of the phone. His mind supplies the image, John pulling himself up to reach Sherlock’s lips. The peculiar curve of Sherlock’s spine that suggests he wishes he was shorter, just for this. John’s hands, cuffed together, pushed aside so he can get close enough, or fumbling with the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt.

********  


The sound of John’s knees hitting the floor, followed by the shush of Sherlock’s trousers over his skin and onto the floor has Greg taking a deep breath and worming his fingers back into his pants. Greg wants to run his fingers through John’s hair, watch John reach up to undo his fly. Maybe he can beg off the rest of the day and go home. There have to be some perks of being in charge.

********  


The sound Sherlock makes when John takes him in his mouth sends spikes of pleasure through Greg. He has to pull himself free of his pants, stroking slowly because he can tell John is teasing, he intends to draw this out as long as Sherlock will let him. God he should have hung up when he realized it wasn’t a kidnapping, John is going to keep them both on edge forever and Greg is going to get caught. The danger of being found out sends another spike of adrenaline through him and his hand speeds up. It doesn’t matter if he lasts as long as they do, he can come and shut off his phone and go back to work. Leave them to finish none the wiser that he had ever been listening. _Yes but then you won’t know how it ends_. I’ve seen this often enough to know how it ends, he’s seen, god he has seen so much of both of these men, and he can’t ever get enough of it.

********  


He can see it now, and it makes him moan in a way that has nothing to do with the speed of his hand on his cock. Sherlock still, head thrown back, maybe holding the tails of his shirt away from John’s face, pants and trousers pooled around his ankles. John always has the most wicked gleam in his eyes when he starts, challenging. Eventually his eyes will slide closed and he swallows, pulling closer. Greg’s hips rise up to meet his hand and he imagines pushing into John’s mouth, groans and hears Sherlock as an echo.

********  


Sherlock’s stream of praise and encouragement is almost always in French, and the sound of it now fills a gap for Greg, gives him something to hold onto as he strokes himself alone in the dark. Early on John and Greg had tried to get Sherlock to tell them what he was saying, Sherlock barely remembered it and neither John nor Greg could repeat it back to him. Greg had almost signed up for night school French classes, but they had decided that whether or not Sherlock was uttering nonsense was unimportant. The _sound_ of it, quick fluid and so deep, then breathless, cracking apart into single words that needed no translation.

********  


Now it was rough, Sherlock’s voice catching against his harsh breathing. The sudden shift back to English was jarring, “Don’t, John. don’t please, I...” John’s frustrated groan brought a wordless cry to Sherlock’s lips, “I... John. Please, I need you.. don’t. _J'ai envie de te chevaucher, god I want you to fuck me_. please, don’t.”

********  


John groans again and Greg can hear the increase of pace, but he can’t tell if John is moving or if Sherlock is fucking his mouth. The image blurs in his mind as both, are they memories or fantasies, merge; a slow gentle slide or a rough fuck that makes John gag and his eyes water. Sherlock propped against the wall with his thighs spread and John’s fingers working into him, the first time, up against the fridge in the kitchen, with Greg using John’s mouth on Sherlock’s cock.

********  


Greg groans into his hand, but it is nothing compared to the stuttering groan of Sherlock coming down John’s throat, and that is almost enough. Greg is panting, his hand flying over his cock and he is so close he thinks he won’t be able to come at all.

********  


There is another thud and John’s voice suddenly floods into Greg’s ears, “Jesus, you beautiful monster, watch my head. Take that thing off.” Sherlock growls and there is a plastic click, then John sighs. God he must be on the floor, right next to his trousers, because every sound that comes from John is full and rich in Greg’s ears. There is a far away sound of clothing being kicked off and dropped, and then John is cursing. “fuck, fuck, fuck, jesus, Sherlock, fuck...” all punctuated with tiny knocks of the back of his skull against the floor. It is like John is right there beside him and Greg can look down his body and watch Sherlock slide down onto him, and he wants to kiss the curses from John’s lips.

********  


It won’t be long, they have been on edge so long now that Greg knows they are both close, Greg changes his grip, giving his hand a twist as he circles around the head. The tiny moans and broken bits of curses coming from John fill his mind through the headphones, and that is something he will never ever get tired of hearing. Sherlock is whispering in French again, and Greg knows now even if he never would have believed it all those years ago, that Sherlock isn’t playing a game, isn’t pretending. Greg comes in white hot splashes, that fire every nerve ending in his body and force his spine to arch up off the camp bed. He’s very glad that John cries out, “Sherlock!” at the same time. He’s afraid he’s bruised his hand from biting down on it, and the sound of John’s orgasm fills him up and sends an extra pulse of pleasure through him.

********  


He fights against the wave of exhaustion that follows the pleasure, forcing himself to sit up, to clean himself off and try to make himself presentable for the rest of his day at work. He can’t bear to disconnect the call, he can hear John and Sherlock murmuring to each other, and god he just wants to curl up next to them, even on the hard floor of their room and sleep.

********  


“Ow, get off me, you beast.” John clears his throat. “And get the key for these.” John shakes his wrists and the cuffs rattle.

********  


Greg laughs under his breath as he hears the cuffs open and John groans as Sherlock hauls him to his feet, “Jesus, I can’t shag on the floor anymore, I must be getting old.”

********  


Greg straightens up and carefully flips over to the text message window.

********  


**Tell him he isn’t old, and I will get you some patches on the way home. -GL**

********  


He waits until he hears the ding of Sherlock’s phone before he disconnects the call and makes himself presentable to go back out into the office.

********  


His phone chimes before he gets back to his desk.

********  


**Make it a pack and I won’t tell him what I was looking for. -SH**

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love and devotion now due to Interrosand for French help


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is turning into a good excuse to write PWP.  
> Public sex, and chasing after bad guys.

Sherlock had dragged John out by his coat collar as soon as he had stepped in the door; he’d texted Greg as soon as he had sorted out that Sherlock was on the trail of a blackmailing nephew. “Why are we trying to stop the nephew if the uncle really did steal the painting?”

********   


“No, John try to keep up! The father stole the painting, ages ago, and the nephew is trying to frame the uncle. The nephew has the painting... in one of the storage lockers here. We just need to wait and see which one.”

********   


Greg slid up behind John and got a face full of Sig Sauer before John pulled back and sheepishly tucked the gun back into the holster clipped to the waist of his trousers. “Fuck, sorry Greg,” John pecked him quickly on the cheek. “Send a text message first next time.”

********   


“Yeah, I will.” Greg was used to ignoring John’s gun by now, just not typically from that particular vantage point. “I should call this in?”

********   


“Not yet, Lestrade. I need him to tell me where he’s planning on selling the cocaine.” Sherlock sighed dramatically  “Oh don’t look like that. He only thinks it is cocaine, he’s been sold a load of baking soda. I just need to get his buyer, because HE has the microchips.” Sherlock rolls his eyes as John and Greg exchange a look of bafflement. “Honestly, I don’t know why I put up with you two.”

********   


John snorts and Greg huffs. “Have you seen us?” His tone dripped sarcasm and affection in equal measures.

********   


They spend the next several minutes staring silently at the warehouse doors.

********   


“I’d rather like to though.” Sherlock’s voice is even deeper than usual, pitched not to carry beyond the entrance to the alley where they are loitering.

********   


“Pardon?” John heard him, but was unable to parse the meaning behind the sentence.

********   


“I’d like to see you,” Sherlock gestures at them.

********   


“What, **now**? Sherlock we are on a case. You don’t...” John gestures at himself and Greg, “on cases.”

********   


“I’ve solved the case already John. The rest of it is just waiting for idiots to turn up.” John caught the flash of something wicked in Sherlock’s eyes even in the dark of the alley. “I can keep a lookout for the nephew and keep an eye on you two.”

********   


“Well maybe I don’t go in for sex in dirty alleys.” John did though, but if Sherlock thought he could just... well, generally he could... Greg had the decency not to say anything but Sherlock was smirking, his attention clearly divided between John and the warehouse door.

********   


Greg licked his lips, still not looking directly at John. And fuck, what was Greg thinking? He was a member of the Met, if he got caught fucking John up against a wall in a seedy part of town... the rest of that thought died under a deluge of fantasy. Greg pinning him against the wall and kicking his legs apart, fucking him hard, fast and rough into the wall.  Pushing John down onto his knees and fucking his mouth. John having to bite his hand to keep from crying out while Greg jerked them both off, his teeth buried in John’s shoulder.

********   


All while Sherlock watched from across the alley.

********   


“Fuck.”

********   


Greg was on him, laughing and pressing him up against the wall before the harsh click had even left his lips.

********   


“I am going to kill both of you in your sleep.”

********   


“You love us.” Greg said against the shell of John’s ear, pinning his wrists over his head with one hand while the other fumbled at John’s fly.

********   


John hisses as Greg finds his half hard cock in his pants and strokes it gently. “Dirty old man.”

********   


“Thank you.”

********   


“It wasn’t a compliment.”

********   


“John, yes it was.” Sherlock growls from across the alley, and John can’t hold his head up any longer.

********   


Greg bites gently at the bit of John’s neck just above his collar and John shivers against the brick, the outline of the Sig pressing painfully into his back.

********   


“God Greg, please I want to...” the rest of that is swallowed up by Greg’s mouth, covering his. John remembers, they are stalking an insane nephew and John can’t scare him off. But then... He tries to wiggle his way down the wall, pressed tight against it and pinned by Greg’s hands.

********   


Greg growls and shoves him harder against the wall, stopping him from sliding down and even pulling him up so he is standing on the balls of his feet. Greg’s hand leaves John’s cock and hitches John’s leg up, pressing his fully dressed groin against John’s hip.

********   


“Ow, too fucking tall for that... fuck let me...” He didn’t encourage Greg and Sherlock’s obsession with picking him up, which isn't to say that he didn’t enjoy it every now and then, there is something to be said for sex on tables and worktops. But he didn’t want to have to worry about finding his trousers in this filthy alley if and when the crazy nephew shows up.

********   


Greg shifted and suddenly John was facing the wall, he bit back a groan as Greg kicked his feet apart. He groaned again for different reasons as Greg ran his hands over the lump in the back of John’s jacket.

********   


“This fucking thing - is dangerous. John.” Greg rips the clip off John’s belt and presses the holstered gun against the wall next to John’s head.

********   


“Greg, I...”

********   


“Be. Quiet.”

********   


It isn’t easy, with one hand pressed against the wall, holding the gun. And John doesn’t think he is meant to help so he concentrates on breathing and staying silent as Greg pulls and shoves at his trousers and pants, forcing the trousers down around his thighs. This is a terrible idea, they are going to get caught, or else the nephew will show up five minutes from now and then they will have to go chasing after him.

********   


“Lestrade.”

********   


And fuck they are going to have to chase after him, John pushes away from the wall and scrambles for his trousers, trying to right himself and prepare for the chase.

********   


Greg pushes him back against the wall, almost hard enough to knock the wind out of him, “No, don’t move.”

********   


_Toothpaste_. John’s safeword floats through his mind, right at the edge of being necessary.

********   


“Do you know, I think he planned this. I think we are standing here waiting for someone who is never going to show.” There is a familiar pop-crack of a tube opening and John melts against the wall. Because it is one thing to fantasize about rough sex, and another thing entirely to have to chase criminals, or even sit in a cab on the way home afterwards.

********   


Greg’s done something with the gun, because now he has one hand on John’s hip, the other is slick with lube and Greg pushes two fingers in hard. John bites the heel of his hand, digging his teeth in to stop himself from crying out as Greg fucks him open with his fingers. He wonders if he should ask Greg for his tie to use as a gag. He pushes himself back off the wall, shifting his hips to get a better angle against Greg’s fingers.

********   


Greg’s tone is conversational, low and smooth but not in a whisper that would carry across the empty spaces around them. “Now who is dirty? Should I fuck you John? I can tell you want me to. Or should I put you down on your knees and make you swallow me?”

“No,” John hisses as Greg’s fingers leave him. “God no, don’t stop.” John suddenly can’t articulate what he wants, being on his knees out here is too much. “Greg.”

********   


Greg’s free hand wraps around John’s waist and pulls him close, his fingers finding their way under the band of John’s pants. “Say yes John.”

********   


“Yes.”

********   


There is another crack of the tube behind him and then Greg is pushing in, not slow enough to be considered gentle, and there is no time to adjust before Greg is pulling back again. John’s head drops back against Greg’s shoulder as Greg fucks him with sharp quick thrusts that push John’s cock into the loose tunnel of Greg’s fist.

********   


“Christ, John. When I get you home.” Greg doesn’t have to finish that sentence for John to imagine the possibilities. John feels himself go boneless, supported by Greg’s arms and hips and cock up his arse.

********   


He fights his way back to the surface and rolls his face into Greg’s neck, “When the case is over, I want both of you like this. Fuck. Greg.” Greg snaps his hips harder and John presses his mouth against Greg’s neck to hold in the sounds he needs to make.

********   


John knows that they both need to come, he can feel them both, “So fucking close.” He relaxes his control, letting his hips stutter and twitch as Greg slides over his prostate, cursing the need to stay quiet.

********   


Greg’s hand tightens on John’s cock, pulling and twisting instead of fucking John into his fist. John’s breath is coming out in a constant, almost silent stream of _“greggregregregegreg”_

********   


Greg tilts his head down and bites John’s shoulder through his jacket and shirt, hard enough to leave an indistinct round mark on John’s skin. He has to slap his other hand over John’s mouth as John shudders against him, his whole body convulsing and clenching as his orgasm floods through him.

********   


And that ought to be enough, holding John still and silent while his body surges around Greg’s cock. But it is the desperate, **_wicked_**  moan that breaks from Sherlock’s throat that sends Greg over the brink and makes him pulse into John’s body.

********   


Greg sighs, once he can feel his body again, wishing he was in an alternative universe where it  was socially acceptable to stand around for days with your cock lodged in your boyfriend's arse. He begins the delicate task of disentangling them, starting by adjusting John’s pants and hitching his trousers back up. John’s fingers take over at the fly and Greg nuzzles against his neck, “Alright?”

********   


“I may still kill you in your sleep, but yes I am good.”

********   


Once they are all set to rights they cross to stand next to Sherlock in the alley. He is still apparently watching the warehouse door, but his head swivels slowly to regard John and Lestrade.

********   


“Seen enough?” John asks as Sherlock rakes him with the _**other**_ look.

********   


“For now.” Sherlock hands back John’s gun in the holster. “He just went in, shall we?”

****  
** **

John and Lestrade give him matching wicked grins and all three run across the open space towards the warehouse.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to leave comments and Kudos. I could in theory write more of this. Because you know that I don't already have enough WIPS. But if you want more I would be happy to try to oblige.


End file.
